Notes on our Labor Day Weekend

Sunday as I was picking up sticks to mow the yard, I saw this ball of fur and an eye staring blankly from the base of one of our trees. I went to the open window to our bedroom and said to Tim, “There’s a dead animal out here.” Tim came out with a plastic bag and heavy garden gloves to pick it up and throw it in the unsuspecting Chinese restaurant’s dumpster (where all our stinky trash ends up). Then he says, “It’s alive.” Then he picks it up and starts walking to me, “It’s a baby squirrel.” I back up and say, “Don’t bring it near me.”

So I went and got the squirrel a box and a towel and Tim wrapped him up to warm him up. He had been out of his nest for awhile. We had a little thunderstorm that night—maybe the squirrel fell or was blown out during that. Then we mowed the yard.

Then Tim tries to climb the tree and return the squirrel to one of the two nests in the tree. But, the nests are too high and the squirrel isn’t going anywhere on his own. He’s returned to his box so Tim can Google.

Google teaches us that we can give it Gatorade through a syringe to hydrate the squirrel. We only have Zero-Calorie Powerade, but what the hell, right? Squirrel hydrated. Also, thanks to Google, we know that the mom squirrel won’t come get the baby if it’s cold. Hot water bottle goes into the box.

Google also tells us to build a nest in a box and put the box in the tree and make him make squirrel noise so his mom will find him and come get him. Except baby squirrel won’t make squirrel noise, not even if you hold him up by his hind paw. So my laptop goes outside and plays squirrel noise.

Night falls. Squirrel is getting cold and no parents have shown up to claim him. After I patently refuse to let the squirrel in the house, “even if it is zipped up in Rosabella’s (the guinea pig) carrier in the basement” the squirrel goes into the garage. Zipped up in Rosabella’s carrier, I assume.

Day two, Monday: Squirrel gets more Powerade and goes back into the tree in his squirrel-box-nest. We all go about our business. Evening comes and the squirrel is still hanging out in his box-next. Dang it. Squirrel goes back into the garage for the night.

Day three, today: I think my husband is a baby squirrel father. All he needs to do is sign the squirrel adoption papers. Squirrel’s parents are presumed dead. Google says we have to buy puppy formula to feed the squirrel.

Next time, I’ll know to get a shovel, scoop up the animal, and put it in my neighbor’s yard. I mean, just last month Terry’s little girls accidentally killed a baby rabbit. Problem solved.